


(inside my head) I've been at war

by nothingbutniall



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of homophobia, WTFock Season 3, after Vrijdag 22:53, babies being soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 04:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21451798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutniall/pseuds/nothingbutniall
Summary: "Robbe never really understood why Sander rests his fingers over the pulse point in his neck while they’re kissing, but he thinks he does now, as his own hand rests in Sander’s neck, and he can feel the soft beating of his heart."Robbe and Sander are soft in a world full of roughness.
Relationships: Robbe Ijzermans/Sander Driesen
Comments: 14
Kudos: 237





	(inside my head) I've been at war

**Author's Note:**

> This was so hard to write. My heart hurts for them.
> 
> (Title comes from Birdy's Give Up.)

There’s a throbbing pain above his right eye when he wakes up. When he stretches his arms above his head, all of his muscles protest against the movement.

He turns around, hissing quietly when his elbow grazes over the sheet. Next to him, Sander is still sleeping.

He looks soft, and peaceful. The cheek on his skin is grazed, the dirty red contrasting against his tanned skin.

Robbe knows he should let him sleep, but he needs to touch. He needs to reassure himself that this is real, that Sander is here. He needs to feel Sander’s breath against his fingers.

Slowly, he lifts his hand, tracing it ever so gently across Sander’s cheek, just below the abrasion.

The puff of air Sander lets out hits his skin, and he watches as Sander’s eyes scrunch up. Robbe moves his hand down and rests it on the mattress, playing with the ends of Sander’s hair.

“Morning,” Sander croaks, eyes heavy with sleep. He turns to his side and places his hand on top of Robbe’s, linking their fingers together.

Robbe watches the way their hands touch, how his fingers fit perfectly between Sander’s, and tries to swallow down the fear that flares up in his chest.

They won’t get to do that anymore. Not outside the walls of this apartment.

There’s a squeeze to his fingers. His gaze flicks up at Sander just a second too slow.

“Hey. Talk to me,” Sander murmurs.

Outside, there is the constant buzz of traffic passing by. Inside, Robbe can barely hear his own breathing.

“I need to…” he starts, already sitting up. His eyes flit towards the graze on Sander’s cheek again. “I need to pee,” he says, closing the door before Sander can react.

The creaking floor sounds too loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.

The bathroom tiles are cold under his feet.

As he washes his hands, he barely dares to look in the mirror. When he does, his breath catches. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, he knew, he saw it yesterday when they were cleaning the dried blood of each other’s faces.

It looks worse in daylight.

He disinfects it once more, clenching his teeth at the stinging pain.

His chest is covered in blue and purple bruises, turning green towards the edges. He presses a finger down into the middle of the biggest bruise, watches the skin turn white for a second before returning to purple. It hurts, but not like the cut. Duller.

Suddenly, the door opens. “Can’t you knock?” he snaps, trying to cover up even though he knows there are too many bruises.

In a way, he’s glad it’s Zoë. He can lie to her. Milan would see right through him, but Zoë doesn’t know about him and Sander. She won’t connect the dots like Milan would.

Maybe Robbe can’t convince Zoë he’s fine, but he can convince her it was just a fight. Just some guys looking for trouble.

She puts a bandage over the cut by his eye and he bites back a groan. No need to get her even more worried than she already is.

He can’t get the “thank you” past his lips.

In his room, Sander is sitting on the edge of the bed, studying himself in the big mirror. Without the sheets covering him, Robbe can see the bruises on his side, across his ribcage.

He closes the door with a soft thud and sits down next to Sander, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

The silence between them is loaded with questions they don’t dare to ask.

Sander turns his head and presses a kiss to Robbe’s temple, letting his lips linger. “How bad is it?” he whispers.

Robbe shrugs.

Gently, Sander pushes him backwards until he’s lying flat on top of the mattress. He taps his thumb softly on the edge of the plaster and looks at Robbe questioningly.

“Zoë,” he says, almost inaudibly.

Sander nods. His fingers travel down, over his neck, across his collarbones, to the bruises on his chest. He traces the outlines, one by one, barely touching. He doesn’t press down the way Robbe did to himself, and for whatever distorted reason, Robbe kind of wishes he would.

Sander is so slow, so gentle, so painfully careful. It makes Robbe’s eyes tear up.

His breath hitches when he tries to swallow down the knot in his throat, and Sander looks up, face filled with concern. He lies down next to him, hand cupping his jaw, and brings their lips together.

That’s what breaks Robbe.

He pulls away, tears falling freely now, and tucks his head in Sander’s neck, where it’s warm and safe and nothing can get to him. Sobs rack through his body, his ribs hurting with every inhale.

Sander moves his hand up into his hair, tangling his fingers in Robbe’s curls, and holds him.

Holds him as his neck gets damp from the tears, holds him while Robbe’s grip on his shoulder turns painful, holds him as the shaking slows down and eventually stops.

He holds him until Robbe lift his head, glossy eyes and tear-stained face looking up at him, and now is not the time but he is so in love with this boy it makes his heart ache.

He kisses him, long and deep, and Robbe kisses back, almost desperately, as if he’s trying to fight the memories from last night.

It takes a while for Robbe’s sight to become less blurry. Sander’s got his head resting on his chest, carefully positioned so he’s not on top of any sore spots.

It’s a thing he does, the same way he often rests his fingers over the pulse point in Robbe’s neck while they’re kissing, and Robbe never really understood that, but he thinks he does now, as his own hand rests in Sander’s neck, and he can feel the soft beating of his heart.

It’s reassuring.

“You know?” Sander asks, running his fingers over Robbe’s skin.

“Hm?”

“You look like art right now.” He sits up, crossing his legs underneath him. “I mean, you always do, but-” he gestures towards Robbe’s chest. “Rothko meets Pollock.”

Robbe frowns. “It’s not art. It’s not beautiful.”

“It is!” Sander’s eyes are glowing. “Robbe, this is so – it’s so powerful.” He reaches behind him to grab his camera.

Robbe catches his wrist. “Sander, stop.” He shakes his head. “Don’t romanticize this. It fucking hurts.”

“Because that’s what good art does, it _hurts_.”

“No, it doesn’t. It shouldn’t. Not like this.”

“But-”

“Sander.” Robbe can’t help the fond smile that appears on his lips. “Maybe that’s what they teach you in that weirdo school of yours, but not all of us are dramatic art students.”

He huffs. “Fine. One photo though. Please?”

Robbe narrows his eyes, but he has always been weak for Sander. “One,” he agrees.

He tries not to overthink it when Sander points his camera, fights down the urge to cover up the way he had for Zoë earlier. His muscles relax after he’s heard the click of the camera and he wants to roll over and go back to cuddling with Sander, but then there is a second click, and a third one, and the camera is right up in his face.

He tries to scowl, but Sander is pulling faces, and he can’t help but laugh, grabbing the camera lens to tilt it away from him. Sander squeaks about the camera being expensive and Robbe reminds him that he was expensive, too, and they’re rolling around on the bed until Sander manages to get in his lap and pin his arms down with one of his hands.

It would be so easy for Robbe to get away, but he stays still, looking at the way Sander’s eyes glitter. The white-haired boy lifts his camera and snaps another picture.

“That’s my favourite one,” he tells Robbe as he drops down next to him. “They’re better if you smile.”

Robbe presses a kiss to his lips.

His chest hurts, and he’s not sure when he’ll feel ready to hold Sander’s hand in the street next, and he needs to convince Sander to go to the police, but for now, he’s perfectly content to stay in this little bubble with Sander.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. You can also find me on Twitter (@nothingbutniall)!


End file.
